


Sweet Dreams

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, Hotels, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Napping, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5280605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Dean and Castiel accidentally fell asleep on each other, and one time it was intentional.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xylodemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/gifts).



> For Julie, because she's been stressed lately and needs some deancas cuddles

一

 

The first time, it’s a complete accident.

They return from a hunt battered and bruised, Sam with a previously dislocated shoulder and a nice set of bruises on his ribs to match and Dean with a new collection of claw marks stretching down his neck and chest, the longest coming dangerously close to breaking the seal of his tattoo. Sam is the first to crash, promptly locking himself in his bedroom with the instruction to not bother him unless the bunker caught fire. With the luck they were having over the last twenty-four hours, it _could_ happen.

Castiel is waiting in the living area when Dean walks in, dropping his duffel at the arm of the couch and immediately throwing himself into the aged cushions, uncaring that his face is practically in Castiel’s lap. It’s the softest thing he’s laid on in a week; if someone asks him him to move, he just might cry. “Feel like I got plowed by a semi,” he comments, words muffled in his friend’s pant leg.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Castiel asks, not really inquiring. He strokes through Dean’s hair, fingers curling through damp strands until Dean fully relaxes in his lap. Dean mumbles something reminiscent to ‘not now,’ and falls asleep before he can make himself comfortable.

Hours later, Dean awakens to the feeling of that same hand resting in his hair, just sitting there, warm and relaxed. His chest stings from dried blood and probably the beginnings of an infection; a shower sounds like a great idea, maybe a bath if he can get the water to run hot enough. Maybe he can get Castiel to stitch up the gashes that run the deepest while he’s at it. But he’s content here, Castiel’s thigh warm against his cheek, fingers occasionally twitching with his dreams. At least, until he realizes he’s drooled everywhere and his face is sticking to the cotton.

Maybe he needed to rethink this.

“Cas,” he grumbles, halfhearted, struggling to right himself in the scant space of the couch; he ends up tripping himself up on Castiel’s leg and falls forwards instead, half in Castiel’s lap and half with his face smothered in his shirt, Castiel’s chest heaving with the new weight. Above him, Dean catches the bewildered look on his face, pale lips parted in an unasked question. “…Good, you’re awake.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” Castiel mumbles and throws an arm over his eyes. “You smell like you’ve been digging a ditch.”

Dean laughs a bit, careful to keep his voice down; Sam’s still asleep, as far as he can tell. No food cooking in the kitchen, no rattling pipes in the walls; he’s down for a few hours, at the least. “Dug up three graves, ‘s no surprise I don’t smell like a chimney.” He should move—should get off Castiel and pad his way to the bathroom before his clothes are ruined and his wounds look even uglier than they already do. But Castiel is warm and inviting, and he’s making no indication that he plans to move any time soon. “…Think I drooled on your leg.”

Castiel chuckles, soft in his throat. “I’ll wash them with your clothes. Do you need stitches or anything?”

“Probably.” With reluctance, Dean heaves himself off of Castiel’s body and sits, ignoring the way his bones pop when he pushes off the couch. He runs his fingers over the red stains in his shirt, faint but there, noticeable. “Think you can patch me up in the tub?”

“I’ll try my best,” Castiel yawns and follows him from the room, socked feet plodding behind. “I’m surprised you waited this long.”

Dean huffs and hides a smile. “Yeah, well, you do it best.”

 

二

 

They really need to talk about it, Dean figures. It’s only happened once, sleeping within the same proximity as one another. But it’s still embarrassing all the same, waking up with no recollection of where he is, draped over Castiel like he’s a pillow. Or a mattress, or those fleece blankets he bought at Old Navy two weeks ago; Castiel stole one the minute he walked in the door, the mooch.

There’s a dragon sighting outside of Waycross—an honest to God _dragon_ , with horns and wings and a tail and everything—and they’re stuck in an alley outside of a dive bar on main street, waiting to see the thing walk out with human legs and human arms. He’s lived there for years, Miss Gertrude had told them earlier in the day, “He wouldn’t hurt nobody no how, and that’s the God’s honest truth.” And Dean had believed her for all of two seconds before they found another body in the cotton fields, missing half of his torso and scorched to Hell and back. Beside it, a chunk of scaly flesh and Austin Laney’s wallet. For all Dean knows, Austin probably thinks he left it at the bar. He’ll be outside soon—hopefully.

“I don’t see why we don’t go inside,” Castiel complains for the fourth time, one hand on his phone, the other digging through a bag of cheddar chips. They’re his new addiction, this one infinitely more tolerable than his previous craze of putting hot sauce on _everything_. Dean steals a chip once Castiel’s hand has vacated the bag, shoving it into his mouth and barely missing his finger in the process. They should’ve eaten before they parked—or at least packed something heavier than the sandwiches Sam shoved in the cooler. Poor guy’s probably sitting in the motel room flipping through five channels. “It’s warmer, and we have more of a chance of catching Austin there rather than sitting here.”

“Because,” Dean asserts, pointing a chip at him, “we can’t just barge in there lookin’ around like that. The bartender already thinks we’re suspicious enough as it is.” Beside him, Castiel grunts his assent. “He went in ten minutes ago, right? Once he finds out he doesn’t have his wallet,” and Dean brandishes the worn leather to make his point, “he’ll come out, and we’ll grab him. Deal?”

“My plan sounds more thorough,” Castiel grumbles.

Dean just rolls his eyes and settles in. He can barely see past the entrance to the alley, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside of the bar, its bulb flickering every few seconds. It probably needs to be fixed, just like everything else in this rat hole town. Not that this place is any better than Lebanon, but at least in Kansas he doesn't get looked at like he’s grown two heads just because he’s walking around with another man. A man that won’t stay a foot away from his hip, either.

The alley is silent for a while, and Dean finds himself entranced with the rhythmic pulse of the streetlamp’s light and the sound of Castiel breathing in the passenger seat. At some point, his eyes droop closed, and he’s met with an impressive weight on his right side a while later, Castiel’s body slumped against his own. He’s snoring into Dean’s shoulder, snuffling after he does, too lost in his own dreams to care. Dean would be loath to admit the way his heart stuttered as he watched Castiel sleep, how warm and soft he felt pressed up against him, one of his hands draped across the bench seat near his hip. Despite the itch, he doesn’t cover Castiel’s hand in his, but neither does he move it away. Just stares out of the glass, his heart hammering in his chest with Castiel slumbering on his shoulder.

Through the windshield, Dean can see the sky turning a pale blue, faint hints of sunlight painting up above the brick-walled buildings. The bar’s exterior lights are shut off, the neon in the window displaying _CLOSED_ in pink and blue letters.

They did it— _again_. And in the front seat of the Impala.

They won’t tell Sam, either—he’d make sure of it.

 

三

 

Dean doesn't catch colds—never catches the flu, never touches anything without washing his hands afterwards. Sam calls it neurotic—Dean calls it _preparedness_. But hand washing can only go so far when a witness’s child sneezes directly in his face, snot and all, and he’s left with a sore throat one day and the plague the next. At least this hunt was an hour away, close enough to not even bother with motel rooms. But with the way his nose wont stop bleeding yellow everywhere, he won’t be traveling back and forth to Stockton any time soon.

Sam takes off as soon as Dean’s medicated with more Nyquil than probably necessary and stuffed full of tissues, leaving Castiel to tend to his feverish form. Unlike Sam, Castiel actually _stays_ in his room with him, despite the risk of him contracting whatever it is that’s trying to choke him with his own phlegm. “’M gonna die,” Dean complains around midnight, a cold rag draped over his forehead and a thermometer in his mouth. He probably needs more medicine—or a knife.

“You’re not going to _die_ ,” Castiel admonishes with an eye roll. He removes the thermometer after it beeps and looks over the reading, eyebrows pinched. “It’s going down,” Castiel says, still pensive. “But not enough.”

Dean just groans. “’M freezin’ an’ I feel like a cat’s sittin’ on my chest,” he wheezes, fighting off another coughing fit. “Can’t you just shove that pillow over my head?”

“It’s just a cold,” Castiel huffs. “You need to rest, Dean. Stop fighting me.”

“’M _dying_ , Cas,” Dean whines. He flails his arms a bit under the blankets, giving up whatever he was trying to accomplish with them afterwards. Ignoring him, Castiel reaches over to his side of Dean’s bed and pours out two pills into his palm, handing them over with a glass of water. “Not again—.”

“Yes, _again_. And then you can sleep.” Dean complies after a long minute of staring, leaning up enough to swallow the pills dry and chase them down with half the glass. He falls flat directly after, willing himself not to cough, or sneeze, or _whatever_. The last thing Castiel needs is to catch whatever this is. “Now rest,” Castiel shushes him, placing his hand over the rag on Dean’s forehead. “It’s almost one.”

“Don’t wan’ you to go,” Dean slurs. After that is a blur of dead air, and faintly, he recalls the gentle smile on Castiel’s lips before he falls completely under, black swallowing him whole. And to his shock, Castiel is still there when he coughs himself awake at nine in the morning, his bladder aching and his face pressed into Castiel’s hip. And this time, he doesn’t think it’s so bad, passing out there in the privacy of his own room.

Until Castiel blows his nose at his side and makes a noise like he’s _dying_.

Well, at least they’re in this together.

 

四

 

The motel in Tonopah only has two beds. Sam immediately claims one by throwing himself onto it face first and passing out, leaving Dean and Castiel to debate their side of the bed through a series of harsh glances and gestures that make Castiel—and probably God Himself—frown wildly. In the end, Dean claims the right side and plants himself near the headboard, untying his boots with Castiel at his back. For a while, they work in tandem, shrugging off their road clothes and tossing them atop their duffels, Dean pulling on his pajamas soundlessly. Castiel takes first run at the shower and exits with a towel wrapped around his waist. Dean stares for too long and earns a blue-eyed glare.

Sam’s still asleep after he finishes his own shower, and on the left side of the bed, Castiel is thumbing through his phone again, too lost in some dice game to care that Dean’s walking around shirtless with a towel over his head. He plops down on his side and towels his hair dry before tossing it in the direction of the bathroom, missing entirely and almost knocking a painting off the wall. Sam wouldn't have appreciated that one bit.

Castiel finds it amusing, though; Dean warms at his smile and ducks his head, fighting off the giddiness that teases his lips. He shuts off the bedside lamp as soon as Castiel finishes his game, the two of them cowering under the blankets in the dark with Sam snoring in the background, oblivious.

It’s quiet, for a while. Castiel shuffles in an attempt to make himself comfortable, rolling over until he’s on his side, facing Dean’s back. Dean can’t ignore Castiel no matter how hard he tries, and ends up facing him as well, catching sight of sleepless eyes glowing in the pale light of the moon streaming through half open curtains. They’re both exhausted—whoever thought that driving for a day solid was a good idea is a moron.

“I don’t regret it, you know,” Castiel whispers, barely audible. Dean blinks at him, lips pursed. “This bed. This… I like sleeping with you near.” He lets out a breath before shutting his eyes, reaching up to the empty space between them, his hand soft, inviting. “It makes it easier, sometimes.”

It’s a better explanation than Dean can give. He still doesn't understand why having Castiel near calms his nerves, having him lean on him soothes the ache in his chest. Even when they’re apart, he can’t stand the thought of leaving Castiel behind, not knowing where he is or if he’s hurt. If he’s _alright_ , being human. If he’s handling himself okay. _He’s a big boy, he can handle himself_. Still, Dean wants to be there for him—wants to _touch_ him, let him know he cares. Let him know he’s _there_ if he needs anything.

And Dean needs now, more than ever. “Like you here too,” Dean murmurs and reaches up, lacing their hands together. Castiel tightens the grip and ducks his head, unruly hair curled behind his ears. He needs a haircut; Dean wonders if he would let him do it for him. “Like you here a lot, Cas.”

Castiel chuckles under his breath, his smile barely visible between them. “Like you here too, Dean.”

Dean grips his hand tighter and smiles. He’ll take it.

 

五

 

“Their technique is all wrong,” Castiel comments at his side, shoving his hand in their shared popcorn bowl and popping four pieces into his mouth. Dean actually laughs, almost choking on his own mouthful. On the screen, some guy named Zak is yelling at a ghost and telling it to scratch him. “Shouting at it will only make it angry.”

“Pretty sure they’re already angry,” Dean adds and flicks a piece at Castiel’s ear. “Hell, _I’d_ be angry if he came at me like that. That hair?”

Castiel huffs and grabs more popcorn, his other hand tapping the remote against his knee. They’ve been at this for hours, flipping back and forth between late night ghost hunting programs, Dean critiquing them on their ineffectiveness and Castiel preaching about why these locations _aren’t_ haunted, or how much danger the hunters are putting themselves in if they _are_. “I’m sure his hair has nothing to do with it,” Castiel scoffs. They lapse into silence for all of two seconds, long enough for Zak to start screaming and yelling for Aaron and Nick to _shut up, guys_. “He’s hearing low-level Demons.”

“Figured that much,” Dean snorts. “Can’t believe they’re that camera shy, though.”

“Wouldn't you be?” Castiel casts him a glance, and Dean just _loses_ it. The cameras never bothered him during his stint—not a whole lot of things did, in retrospect. Maybe some Demons just don't like the limelight. “Exposing your existence to human eyes is dangerous. The last thing they want is to leave their home, let alone a man in skinny jeans telling them what to do.”

“Depends on the guy in skinny jeans,” Dean teases; Castiel smacks his thigh. “C’mon, Cas, play along. Say you saw someone in tight pants—.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Dean catches the popcorn that Castiel hurls at his face, much to Castiel’s annoyance. “You’re not supposed to _eat_ it—.”

“Hey, food’s food,” Dean laughs. “Throwin’ it at me’s just gonna make it easier.”

They settle long enough for Zak to review a surprise development with Billy, during which Castiel finishes the bowl and throws a leftover piece at Dean’s cheek. There’s something softer in the air now, less oppressive when they sat down two hours before on the couch, purely with the intent to nod off to whatever Castiel taped on the DVR. He never expected for them to jab each other while watching reality television and people who would probably piss themselves if they encountered a _real_ ghost. The episode ends and Castiel starts another one; older, based on the length of Zak’s hair. Briefly, he wonders about calling the guy, teaching him how hunting _actually_ works. The methods are the same, but he’s not getting the answers he wants.

Castiel yawns midway through and slumps in his seat, enough to where he can put his feet up on the coffee table and cross his ankles. His hands rest in his lap, antsy, like he doesn't know what to do with them. “Y’gettin’ bored?” Dean asks; he’s been up since four, only because a car had backfired on the property next door and Dean had run into the hall, gun in hand, fully expecting someone to be standing there. Sleep after that was a nightmare.

“I’m exhausted,” Castiel admits; Dean flushes when he lays down across the length of the couch, cheek resting on Dean’s thigh, a hand curling into his pajama-clad knee. “And it’s nice here.” The _with you_ goes unsaid; Dean still hears it anyway, the words sitting heavy on his heart.

“Yeah, well, fightin’ the TV’ll do that to ya.” Popcorn bowl moved to the floor, Dean takes the remote from Castiel’s hand and pauses the program; they’ll finish it later, when Castiel is awake and cognizant. For now, he’s nodding off on Dean’s leg, body relaxing by the second until he’s gone, out. Dean doesn't have the heart to leave him, either, doesn't want to carry him to the room beside Sam’s. Doesn’t want to _not_ have him nearby. It hurts too much to even think about, some days, knowing that the closest they’ve gotten is joined hands and their bodies pressed together.

Briefly, he wonders if they’ll ever go further.

For now, he threads his fingers through Castiel’s hair and leaves the television on some late-night program about a man in khaki swimming with sharks. He’s asleep before he can even learn the name of the show.

 

プラス一

 

It’s been a long day—longer than most, considering they drove straight from Knoxville after getting nearly evicted by an overly-observant motel owner and her incessant need to get cash _now_. And by _now_ , he meant two in the morning with her keys in the doorknob. By some miracle, she left when a dog started howling across the complex—they made it into the Impala before anyone took notice, leaving nothing behind but a bottle of Sam’s travel shampoo. He can replace it; it’s not like they don’t have an entire container in one of the shower stalls at home.

Fourteen hours turns into sixteen with restroom and food breaks, and they make it to the Bunker before six in the afternoon, the sun at their back and the chill setting in. Sam’s asleep in the front seat when they pull up, and Castiel’s not far behind, complaining of a foot cramp and a severely overdue bladder. Dean gets them into the garage before Castiel breaks away, his duffel in hand, leaving Dean to wake his brother by honking the horn and letting the echo do its work. “You’re a dick,” Sam grouses once his ears stop ringing; Dean just laughs and directs him to the door.

Later, after Dean’s soaked his limbs in the tub and Castiel has tried his hands at dinner, they meet in Dean’s room, one light illuminating the entire space. Dean’s half asleep with a paperback in hand, a compression sleeve on his knee and reading glasses hanging off his nose, eyes barely staying open. “Y’need something?” he asks Castiel, glancing over to the pajama-clad man in the doorway, catching the exhaustion in his eyes, the slouch in his gait. “Y’can sleep here, if you want.”

He doesn't even chase the words once he’s said them, doesn’t have the heart to deny it. Across the room, Castiel’s face lights up three shades brighter, and Dean pats himself on the back for not screaming and running away. “I wanted to ask you about it before, but you never appeared interested,” Castiel says with a shrug. Still, he shuts the door and pads inside, falling onto the left side of the bed with his socks still on.

Dean dog-ears his page and, putting both the book and his glasses away, shuts off the light, shuffling beneath the covers. Castiel does the same at his side, obviously too tired to do anything but reach for Dean’s hand and tug him closer, until their foreheads are pressed close. His heart races when he touches Castiel’s hip, the realization that he can _have_ this almost strangling him right there. “Thank you,” Castiel whispers between them, eyelids fluttering open, just enough. “Never got to… thank you.”

“Don’t gotta thank me,” Dean answers, soft. He curls his head under Castiel’s chin and rests there, breathes him in. “Just gotta stay here.”

“I’ll stay,” is the last thing Castiel says before he quiets, soft breaths Dean’s only indication that he’s there, that they’re _together_ , willingly.

Dean smiles into his neck and draws an arm around him, holds him tight. “Don’t ever go.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this in my drafts FOREVER, and since I finished half of my projects for next week, I went ahead and finished this today! Enjoy some fluffy goodness for Thanksgiving, and have a good holiday for those of you in America and abroad! (The section titles are in Japanese because why not.)
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity). I'm nice!


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